


Whoever Brings the Night

by NekoMida



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Character Turned Into Vampire, F/M, Historical Fantasy, Historical References, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24498274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoMida/pseuds/NekoMida
Summary: For a lonely man, there is opera, transcending time and ageless in form. There, he finds someone equally transcending time, and plots to make her his own, forever.
Relationships: Male vampire/dying female opera singer
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3
Collections: Original Characters & Original Works Flash Exchange May 2020





	Whoever Brings the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HandmaidenOfHorror](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HandmaidenOfHorror/gifts).



> A few notes here, for historic references:  
> -Dafne is the very first known opera to have been performed. It was performed in Italy during Carnival in 1598.  
> -Carmen debuted its first run in 1875 in Paris, France; it remains highly popular today. Carmen's first successful run took place in 1883, eight years after his death.  
> -'Le Fantôme de l'Opéra' was run in publications from 1909-1910 and was officially published in 1910.  
> -Christine Daae is originally 15 years old in 'Le Fantôme de l'Opéra'; I have used this as a general basis for the opera singer here.  
> -The urns containing recordings were a series of time capsules buried in 1907 and 1912; they were to be opened 100 years later.  
> -'Esseri umani' is Italian for 'human beings'.

For him, she was a forever sparkling jewel, despite the frailty of her figure, the paleness to her skin that betrayed veins that flowed like gentle rivers across it. She sang, despite the pain of her illness, a wilting flower in the vase of life, plucked too soon from the vine and enjoyed not nearly enough to constitute her passing. Simply watching her from afar was enough, to watch her dance across the stage in the thick velveteens and satins that had come into fashion. There was a preference for the opera of his own time, a scant few centuries earlier when he’d been a servant for the illustrious Corsi family, able to catch glimpses of the magnificent costumes and the beauty from a human voice.

But that had been nearly three hundred years ago, and not something that he wished to linger on. It was no longer _Dafne_ that lingered in his mind, but _Carmen_ , temptress of Sevilla strolling across the stage in all her glory. The singer’s _mezzo-soprano_ rang true through the opera house, a testament to how much better the buildings were made in the nineteenth century; they were certainly warmer, if they lacked a bit of charm. And the clothing, something that could disguise him from the regular _esseri umani_ , those that were truly living and not a shell of their former selves.

His jewel sang on stage, the frailty of her voice betraying her condition, and tonight he would strike, offering her that which none would be wise to take. Death would look beauteously upon her, and then he would no longer smell the sourness of her blood upon the pillows, the delicate lace handkerchiefs pressed to her mouth to catch the bile that retched forth from her stomach, or watch his rose deteriorate further.

It was this that earned him the detestable nickname of _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra_ , a myth that was told to thousands, entertainment and disgust for the poor protagonist of the novel. Let the masses believe what they wanted; _‘Christine’_ was no longer chained to a human life, the corpse discovered beneath the _Palais Garnier_ was simply an apprentice dancer, their life cut dramatically short from an injury that was sustained during an earlier production. 

She begged him to record her singing one last time, for the future to hold. They could come back and relive this moment in time, and he simply smiled, obliging her with the recording device a single time more, before her blood filled his mouth, ecstasy weeping from her veins and eyes as her hands clutched the silken vest he wore. She went limp too quickly, bundled into his arms as he spirited them away, to a place far away, where Death reigned and he could watch over her while she slept.

She had been a child upon first seeing her; she had matured to the age of twenty and five before he’d taken her away, and now the world remembered her for her beauty and innocence. Perhaps that is why he let them take the recordings away, discovered while buried in their secret urns, a testament to her love of the opera and his affections for her. The world deserved to know of her, and he had ensured it. How fitting, then, that the most modern day, one hundred years later, that they would discover the real Angel of Music, and perhaps question her story, her disappearance, her life.


End file.
